Survival
by Contrarian
Summary: [One shot, post Ptolemy's Gate] 'Disappeared' doesn't necessarily mean 'dead'. Not featuring the character you may be visualizing...


_Warning: This story contains spoilers for Ptolemy's Gate. If you have not read the book, please read no further._

Look: two fics in two days. How…unusually productive of me. Ahem. Although the summary may cause you to think otherwise, this story is _not_ about Nathaniel. That would be too happy. Instead, this fic focuses on one of the less popular characters…I'm sure you'll be able to guess who before they're actually named. Enjoy, but only if you've read Ptolemy's Gate, darn it. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always.

_Disclaimer_: Anything and anyone recognizable belongs to Jonathan Stroud.

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**_Survival_**

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Night had long fallen over the ruins that had been Whitehall. Ash and dust still swirled lazily in the air, blocking whatever moonlight there was. Rubble was strewn heavily over the open square at the front of the once grand cluster of buildings, sometimes piled up nearly four feet high.

It was one such pile that shuddered at that moment, as if it was about to collapse in upon itself.

Bits of stone and glass fell, tinkling and clattering, onto the cracked and scorched pavement. The debris trembled again, and, after a slight pause, a bloody hand shot out of a small gap in the rubble and clamped onto the ground, curiously sharp and blackened, broken fingernails grinding against the cement.

A cough, a sound like someone spitting, and a faint curse issued forth from the heap of rock, metal, and glass. Out of the gap a forearm protruded, badly cut and bleeding, then the whole arm, then a shoulder. With a mighty effort and an animal cry, Jane Farrar wrenched her full torso out from under the remainder of one of the buildings.

Panting, she rested for a moment, inhaling smoke and ash, but still thinking that the air had never tasted sweeter. For hours she had lain unconscious, trapped beneath that crushing weight. Then she had awoken and became fully aware of the horror of her position. Buried alive, not even strong enough to transform fully into either human or wolf, she'd spent what felt like an eternity clawing at her prison, slowly digging through to the outside again. Now, dizzy from lack of air and exhaustion, she lay half-in and half-out of what would have been her tomb, eyes shut and what remained of her hair damp and matted against her cheeks and neck.

An indeterminable amount of time passed. The darkness did not lift. Gradually her breathing slowed, and she cracked one eye open.

She knew immediately that she was still trapped between her wolf and human form, because of this night vision. Despite the darkness all around, she could still see her arms – and what a gory sight _that_ was, shards of glass embedded in her left wrist and right forearm, and hardly any skin showing beneath a crusty layer of dried blood – and her hands, ending in black, pointed nails, now broken and, in one case, nearly torn off. Her eyes were yellow smudges in the night.

Her strength now somewhat recovered, she started to twist her lower body, scrabbling as much as she could with her legs in order to push herself all the way out onto the pavement. After a few moments' desperate struggle, she managed to extract herself entirely from the rubble. Gingerly, limbs screaming with every small movement, she moved in a stupid sort of army-crawl along the ground, collapsing after going only a meter or so.

As she recovered from that small exertion, she thought that she should at least attempt to change into one of her two possible forms. Summoning what remained of her energy, she transformed. Hair sprouted along her arms and legs, clothing dissolving into the emerging fur. She felt the familiar, yet still extremely uncomfortable lengthening of the bones in her face, forming a wolf's snout. Her limbs changed length as she felt her long tail growing outward. The wolf, panting, forced herself to all four feet.

The fountain. The stupid statue from which the water poured from several points had been obliterated, but there might still be water there. She could at least try to clean off the blood that was clumped on her fur, which she saw was now gone in several places, revealing long, bloody scrapes.

Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself towards the fountain. The nail that was dangling by a thread was lost in the process, and a new twinge of pain, nearly lost amidst her total agony, replaced it.

Once she had reached the wide basin, she saw herself reflected in the dark water. A whine escaped her animal mouth – evidence of her overwhelming relief. She hauled herself in.

Cold, albeit dirty water washed over her wounds and cleared away some of the gore. It stung, but it was better than dragging herself around, soaking in her own blood.

_How am I alive?_

The wolf ground her teeth in mixed wonder and anger. She lowered her head to gnaw at a clotted mass of fur. The bitter taste of blood nearly made her gag, but she succeeded in ripping away the mess of hair and gore. It floated sullenly on the surface of the water for a minute, and then submerged.

It was no mystery what had happened to her fellows. She had watched almost all of them die as they attempted to bring down the horde of rampaging demons. But what had happened after she had been trapped beneath that pile of debris? Except for a muted, orange glow off in the distance, there was nothing around but ruin. No gleeful demon laughter in the distance, no screams of fear or pain.

Silence. It was as unsettling as the clamor of a continuing battle would have been.

So, she thought as she climbed back out of the fountain, dripping wet and emitting a foul stench, but at least somewhat cleaner and less pained than she had been. There was only a limited amount of possible explanations for this quiet. Either the demons had managed to kill everyone they came across and moved on, or – but this was ridiculous – Mandrake and the others had succeeded in driving the monsters away, and the city was taking a relieved breather.

No. That couldn't be it. Jane struggled across the square, violently keeping the idea from lodging firmly in her mind. It was ludicrous. John Mandrake was in no way strong enough to drive off all the demons with only junior ministers, a jumped-up commoner, and a small group of imps for help. No.

But that scent. The scent of people and – yes – the sound of human voices, reached her from far off. Her sharp hearing and smell caught both. She strained her ears, dragging herself in the direction she thought the noise was coming from. The sound was not the fearful jabbering of people waiting to die, but purposeful-sounding conversation. And now – Jane could hear it clearly – there was the sound of someone giving firm directions. Someone female, and with a familiar voice: the commoner who had found her and the other captive magicians in Whitehall.

If she was alive, then…

_My god_.

Absurd. Had they really won? Had they succeeded where she – a member of the Council – and her strongest remaining wolves could not?

_No! _

With perfect clarity and against her will, the picture took shape in her mind. Somehow, against all odds, Mandrake and his pathetic army had defeated the demons. Now that they were safe, they would be looking for people hiding, the survivors. And then, once that was done…they would start to rebuild.

And nothing would be like it had before.

That commoner…she and others would want a say as the government was reestablished. All the filth in London would want to share a part. Mandrake, who had obviously joined forces with the girl, would probably grant such an insane wish. The fool was hopelessly soft-hearted; the spectacle with his slave had shown her that much.

And what would happen to her? She, probably the only one who would see how intolerable the idea of letting _commoners_ have an active role in the government, would be quickly sided against and cast out. No, more than that: Mandrake, to whom she had made clear her disgust and harmful intentions, would probably have her killed straight off when she was found.

_If_ she was found.

The thought made a tremor shoot down her spine. She had no choice. She could stay and almost certainly die, and if not be subjected to a government run by people lower than dirt, or she could take her leave now, before anyone knew she lived. She knew what she had to do. She would head out immediately, settle in a new land, and resume her studies there. She would recover her strength, and then….

And then she would decide what to do next. She would watch London from afar. No doubt she would soon be smirking to herself as she watched the rickety government they would establish collapse.

No choice but this. Her wolf features set in a grimace, Jane Farrar turned towards the least ravaged street she could see and started off, her progress slow but sure.

Behind her, the sun began to rise. A brutal red cut through the haze and made the road before her look as if it was awash in blood.


End file.
